State Of Grace
by MattWritesStuff
Summary: Blaine Anderson was just a fifteen year old boy in love with his best friend. It was hard for him to understand how this led to him transferring to a school across town in his sophomore year and having to start over - without letting anyone know his secret. closet!blaine/eventual klaine.
1. Day One

title: state of grace  
rating: nc-17  
status: in progress  
summary: blaine anderson was just a fifteen year old boy in love with his best friend. it was hard for him to understand how this led to him transferring to a school across town in his sophomore year and having to start over - without letting anyone know his secret. closet!blaine/eventual klaine.

a/n: okay, this is it. three weeks of staying up all night listening to taylor swift, fun., and ed sheeran albums angrily typing and drinking too much tea later and i'm ready to post this. Let me start off by saying, this is the most personal piece of writing I've ever attempted, let alone posted. It's kind of based on my own personal experience of transferring schools and being forced into the closet for the rest of my high school days, so this has really been my best outlet for everything as i'm about to graduate.

thank you to so many people for putting up with me this past month, especially jordan who not only managed to make me name a character after him, but also proved the best beta/support system/boyfriend i could have asked for. i love you boy (despite the fact that you're an asshole in this. sorry. you asked for it.)

**state of grace;  
day one. **

I'm not sure why I'm writing this… but I'm not sure of anything any more. Everything is so different here. I admit I was never popular at my last school, but at least I was comfortable. Maybe naive, - some may even call me stupid. I had friends, though. I had a niche. I really thought people understood, that I was the luckiest fifteen year old kid in the world. A Freshman who wasn't being bullied, wasn't an obnoxious asshole, got good grades but still maintained a social life comprising of extra-curricular activities and hanging out with friends. What more could I have asked for? It was all going so well. Even the teachers seemed to like me for the most part. Mrs. Finnigan being the exception there, but looking back I don't think she liked anyone. I don't blame her, either, I'd hate the world if I had to spend my days teaching History to kids who had no interest in her class other than for the opportunity to call her names and throw gumballs at her. She never taught me, but my… best friend at the time, well, he was one of the people who particularly liked challenging her, and anything associated with him made Mrs. Finnigan instantly crazy. I'm pretty sure she did go insane in the end, my last memory of her (and also my fondest) was her grabbing me right by the bowtie, dragging me into the Principal's office and yelling at me to spill any information I had on "his" conspiracy plans against her… needless to say I had no idea what she was talking about, and that landed me in detention for two weeks. I think that could have been the beginning of my downward spiral.

What was my point there? Oh, right. Firstly, I never understood why my peers wouldn't get over the fact that Mrs. Finnigan was slightly overweight, spoke with a lisp and walked around with her skirt tucked into her underwear, and realize that she was actually really knowledgeable about her subject. But most teenagers don't seem to have an interest in history class - there's something in that, I think. Because unless you're Homecoming Queen or the Star Quarterback and end up peeking in high school, you spend eighty percent of your days fantasizing about what you're going to do once you graduate. Where you're going to go to college, or where you're going to live, if you'll get out of Ohio or have to make the best of yourself in the same town where you grew up. People don't want to look at the past, and sometimes they don't want to look at the present, they just want the glorious, unclear vision of the future, which is everything but defined for them.

Or maybe they just found the class insanely boring. Either way, I enjoyed my time spent in Mr. Ryan's class, where his preferred method of teaching was pretending he was a pirate. He even had a stuffed parrot that knew all the answers to the questions his deckhands and slaves (honour roll students and… other students) were too dumb to come up with. I'm not sure Mussolini had an exotic pet bird and said "Arrr" at the beginning of every sentence, though… Hitler, maybe.

It's ironic that I still enjoy History, even after losing my mentally unstable teacher. It was the highlight of my first day at McKinley. If someone can bring me back to the 1800s in forty minutes, maybe someday someone could bring me back to where I was this time last year, and let me stay there.

Did anyone even notice me today? I don't think so. I dressed normally - not normal for me, normal for a normal straight sophomore on a normal day of school, I didn't speak to anyone aside from my teachers and some tiny brunette with crazy eyes asking if I could sing. She was looking for glee club recruits, apparently they were reforming with a new showchoir director and they'd actually definitely for sure win Nationals this year because she was the lead vocalist - I'd considered it for a brief second. Last year, I was in Glee with… yeah, I was in Glee, and I loved to sing and dance. I was pretty damn good at it, too. Performing really became my thing. But it didn't fit with the persona I had to uphold. So I smiled semi-politely at the girl and told her "Maybe next year, if they ever cancel football", and she seemed pretty offended and stormed off.

At lunch I located a lovely deserted bathroom at the end of the building. The stall was almost cosy, once I got over the smell. It was weird, being in a school. After being withdrawn for the last few months at my last and then having the whole summer to try my best to re-invent myself ("Try and find yourself, son… a better self. A self everyone can love, and you'll be fine,") the concept of a routine day of education was almost alien. Not having anyone to talk to in class, at break times, in the hallways, it was kind of depressing. But I need to remember why I'm here. I can't risk anyone finding out about me… I don't think my family would ever forgive me if it happened again.

Writing about my day was meant to help… documenting my feelings was meant to be comforting. Like those diaries you read from people living through World War Two, or the accounts of those discovering new lands for the first time. In a way I am conquering new territory, right? They always wrote about their present. You never heard their back story. Everyone has their own history, but maybe it hurts too much, or maybe it was insignificant in comparison to the present, or the aforementioned non-defined future. Even Anne Frank got a diary for her birthday and proceeded to write about the days she spent in hiding. I wonder if any of those great men and women of the past got any satisfaction out of it, or if they just did it because they knew that at any turn, any moment, something amazing could happen, something that would be remembered for the rest of human consciousness. Maybe they knew they were in danger, and were terrified of not leaving any shred of legacy. What's my reason? To find an escape? Where do I want to escape to? Do I want to expel my past? Wouldn't writing about that help? I considered it, you know. But instead I told a story about two teachers. It's weird, I have complete control of my hand and the pen I hold in it, but the minute I try to talk about… yeah, this happens. I can't even write his name. And if I try, my brain just makes me forget it. Because he's a part of my past, a part of the person that got beaten out of me all those months back, and now I'm someone else. I'm supposed to be someone else. I know who I have to be to survive. I don't like him a lot. He's a bit of a coward.

I just want to leave him, that guy I pretend to be, behind and trap him in ink and paper and close the cover on him at sunset. In three years time, I can lock him up for good. Maybe burn him. But until then, this is how I'm ending my days.

I know I don't have a way with words, a flare for language or whatever, but nobody is ever going to read this. It's the only part of me that's never going to be judged by someone else.

Then again, it is only day one.


	2. Day Two

Day two.

I'm already tired.  
Everything I do… everything I've ever done… what does it all add up to? It's exhausting to even think about anything having meaning, or impact, but what's worse is the idea that it all makes no difference. There is a statistical probability that chasing a dream will have the same outcome as keeping it a fleeting fantasy to get you through your days, meaning you end up with nothing at the end of it all except for a bitter taste in your mouth. Maybe that's utter pessimism, or maybe it's an unbiased study based on hard facts of personal experience. Except, that doesn't really make it unbiased, but you can't blame me.

Take today, for example. I really wanted to make one improvement upon yesterday, and really that shouldn't have been too difficult. Once you hit rock bottom, the only way is up, right? With this attitude, I pulled into the parking lot, got out of my ridiculously inferior car (mine is officially gone beyond repair after what happened, so I have to deal with the replacement), and tried to let go of the wave of self-consciousness that errupted over me when I realized I was the sole sophomore walking into the building alone. The Cheerio uniforms all moved together in one synchronised, butt-shaking procession led by the three top dogs who, although I had been enrolled at McKinley not twenty four hours at that stage, I recognized as Quinn, Santana and Brittany. It was hard not to notice them, or hear them, or hear about them. The Letterman Jacket crew also clumped together, usually throwing some kind of ball or making some form of noise, and then there were always groups of girls near them. I couldn't tell if they were watching them, or waiting to be noticed by them, and I also didn't know why it was such a big deal to them to maybe go out with someone who wore one of those jackets. How does it set them apart from the rest of the student body, exactly? So you play organized sport, here's your social status and complimentary God complex in exchange for bringing the school the chance of positive publicity. This isn't new to me, obviously this went on in my last school as well. It goes on in, pretty much, every high school in the country. Why am I pissed off about it now?

Because they all belong, and I don't, and I'm having a severe case of jealousy issues. Perhaps it's not pure envy. I don't want for popularity or status, nor do I care for it. I just want to blend in. Be comfortable. Pushing my way through crowds of students, clutching my books and squinting my eyes shut to try and block out my surroundings as I try to reach my locker, isn't my definition of comfort. If I had a talent or aptitude for sports, maybe I could have gone to tryouts that week, but I knew it was no use. Thinking about Glee club, and performance, well that would be ideal, but I know my parents would never approve. Everyone knows they're the outcasts here, and I wouldn't be doing myself any favours. I did love it, though…

That was when I'd had the idea. I turned right on my heel, and made my way to where I remembered seeing the notice board. Of course, it wasn't hard to find again - it was the hallway that was largely taken up by girls in last years Cheerio outfits, signing up for another chance at being in the spotlight. The _spotlight_. Cheerios weren't just girls, right? I was sure I'd seen two or three boys clad in the red and white get up. Cheerleaders were popular, they always had a place, and that was it. That was my mind made up. That was the name Blaine Anderson signed under that of Perry LeFaye (that couldn't be real). I was going to try out for the Cheerios.

Looking back I'm pretty sure it was the worst mistake I've ever made. I sat in class - on my own - the whole day, thinking about my routine. I'd done gymnastics and various styles of dance growing up, so I should be okay. Maybe not as prepared as everyone else, but… who was I kidding? They weren't going to pick me? I was new for crying out loud, last time I checked I wasn't a size two female with a great rack and ass to boot, and I didn't have any sort of reputation, which was kind of a blessing at this stage. Was I really going to ruin it with making a fool out of myself in front of the most powerful girl in my year group? "You may have lost yourself, Blaine," I'd said to myself. "But you haven't lost your courage."

Let me tell you now, self pep talks are never a good idea. First, you get reprimanded for mumbling during math class, and second, you end up spending your lunch time in a line of about three thousand billion girls outside the gym, waiting to be judged in a ten second window of time. It was a step up from the bathroom cubicle, in a way, but not as warm. Being the only boy, I wasn't exactly invisible, either. Luckily, while male auditionees were uncommon, they didn't seem to be completely unheard of, so questioning looks were as worse as it got. Until I got inside.

I didn't know what to expect of Sue Sylvester, until I saw her, dressed in a tracksuit, looking more and more pissed off as each potential Cheerio walked on and off stage. Well, it wasn't a stage as much as an "area of the ground lit up and hereby christened torture-spot". She spoke largely in a language of insults, calling upon people by impromptu nicknames based on her terrible first impressions of them. I didn't know what to expect, so when she sighed and yelled "HOBBIT!" into her megaphone, it took me a second to realise I was next.

"Blaine Anderson, ma'am -"

"Show us what you got, Hobbit, or shoo, 'cause I gots a nail appointment in five," Santana Lopez, who was sitting to the left of Sue, looked up from her vanity mirror and smirked at him. "Well?"

The music started, a beat I was unfamiliar with, and I shuffled my feet uncomfortably. I cant quite recall what happened after that. A few black flips, some stretches, the splits, and somewhere in between all that, I landed right on my backside. A whistle blew, and I knew better than to even look at the panel as my potentially fractured tailbone and I shuffled out the side exit of the gym.

Anyway, now I'm sitting in my room, avoiding Calculus homework and nursing said injury. I think it was my pride I hurt more than anything. The best I can do is hope they don't recognise me (as I don't tend to fall every time I move from A to B), remember me only by the name "Hobbit", and this doesn't start off any gay rumours. I left out this story at my recount of my day at the dinner table tonight, needless to say. What my father doesn't know wont hurt him. The things I do for my love of performing. He should be proud of my passion. I know he's only trying to protect me, because he cares about me. It's not fair to jeopradise that. Plus, he did help me get a job at some coffee shop, the Lima Bean, starting tomorrow. Maybe my very own Prince Charming will park up his white horse outside, stop for a latte, be smitten by my less than average height and eyebrows, and take me away to a magical kingdom, far far away.

I'm liking this writing thing a bit more now, but just so you know - locking embarrassing moments away in a diary do _not _stop them from being embarrassing.


End file.
